He left the house the day before yesterday, without telling any of us good-bye, and he hasn't written, and I don't know what on earth has become of him." "Did he take any luggage ?" "Just a small suit-case.

He even packed it himself, a thing he has never done at home in his life before." This was news.

The proceedings were unlike Randall, who in his goings and comings loved the domestic brass-band.

To leave his home without valedictory music and vanish into the unknown, betokened some unusual perturbation of mind.
I asked whether she knew of any reason for such perturbation.
"He was greatly upset," she replied, "by the stoppage of The Albemarle Review for which he did such fine work." I strove politely to hide my inability to condole and wagged my head sadly: "I'm afraid there was no room for it in a be-bombed and be-shrapnelled world." "I suppose the still small voice of reason would not be heard amid the din," she sighed.

"And no other papers--except the impossible ones--would print Randall's poems and articles." More news.